The Juliet Spell (4 page)

“How does yon work?” he said.

“I don’t really know,” I said. “Water pressure, I guess.”

I went back to the stove and turned on one of the burn.ers.

Edmund stood up to get a better look. Dad would have thought that was a good sign. Getting interested in his sur.roundings.

“How is’t ye can cook without fire?” he said as the burner began to glow.

“It’s electric,” I said. “Sort of like lightning, but not dan.gerous. Look.” I walked over to the light switch and flicked it. The light over the table came on.

Edmund stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t look happy.

“Don’t panic,” I quickly said. “It’s not black magic or any.thing like that. It’s just science. Everybody does this. You can do it.”

“I can?”

I turned off the light. “Come on,” I said. “First lesson in twenty-first-century living.”

He slid along the wall until he was standing beside the light switch.

“Since this is me first time, must I say any special words?” he asked me.

“No. Just push up on the switch.”

He did, and the light, of course, came on. He turned it off. He turned it on. He did it back and forth until the tea.kettle whistled.

“See if you can prop up the table and we’ll sit down,” I said.

While Edmund crawled under the table and tried to stick the leg back on, I got out two mugs and filled them with hot water and tea bags. I figured English breakfast blend was the way to go.

When the tea had steeped, I brought it over to the table. Edmund was sitting at it now, and the thing didn’t shake even when he leaned on it.

“’Tis a simple break at the joint,” he said. “A man could mend it in no time at all.”

“Not my dad… He can fix people, though.”

“A physician, is he?” Edmund asked.

“No. A psychologist. But he’s very good at it,” I said.

“A psychologist. A beautiful word. What does it mean?”

“I guess you’d call him a soul doctor.”

“He must be very holy then,” Edmund said.

“Nope. He’s just good at fixing other people.”

“Mayhap I could mend the table for ye,” he said.

“Mom would like that,” I said. “Try your tea.”

Edmund sipped it.

“Take the bag out first,” I said.

He tried a second sip and made a face. “Strange taste. Have ye no beer?”

“How old are you?” I asked him.

“Sixteen, near seventeen.”

“You have to be twenty-one to drink beer in California,” I said.

“Twenty-one? What the hell for?” he asked. “Are ye sav.ages?”

“Some people start a lot earlier. But it’s illegal if you’re not an adult. And my mom would kill me if I gave one of my friends beer. How about—wait a minute.”

I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a cola. “Try this,” I said, and popped the can open.

Edmund tried one sip. Then he tilted back the can and slurped. “Nectar,” he said. “What d’ye call it?”

“It’s just a cola. Some people call them soft drinks. There’s plenty in there. You can pull one out any time you want.”

Edmund got up and went over to the fridge. “May I open’t?”

“Sure.”

He jumped back when the chill air hit him. “’Tis winter in there!”

“Yep,” I said. “Refrigeration.”

He knelt down and carefully put one hand inside. He felt the food, picked it up and looked at it. Spelled out the words on the packages.

“Is it always so within this chest?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “You can adjust the temperature, but that’s what it’s for. To keep food cold so it doesn’t spoil.”

“’Tis the wonder of the world,” he breathed.

“Wait’ll you see television.”

“Tell-a-vision?” Edmund said. “Prophecy?”

“Not quite,” I said.

“Whatever tell-a-vision be, it must wait—I must ask ye now to lead me to the jakes.”

“The what?”

“The jakes. The necessary. The outhouse. Surely ye have one of those.”

“Let me show you,” I said.

Edmund gulped when he saw the bathroom.

“’Tis like—a sort of temple, so white and set about with basins. It’s never a jakes.”

“Watch me closely,” I said in a voice that I realized prob.ably sounded like a kindergarten teacher’s. “You sit on that. It’s called the toilet. When you’re done you wipe yourself with some of that roll of paper. Then you flush—” I showed him how the handle worked “—and then you wash your hands in the sink. Got it?”

“I’ll do me best,” Edmund said.

“I’ll close the door. But I’ll be right outside. Okay?”

“Ah, okay.”

I waited in the hall. I heard the sounds of flushing and of water running in the sink.

The door opened.

“Must I really wash me hands every single time?” Edmund asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Feels unnatural.”

“Germs.”

“What?”

“Didn’t Doctor Dee ever tell you anything about germs?” I said.

“Nay, that he did not.”

“My mom will explain all about them. And there’s some.thing else I just thought of.”

“What would that be?” Edmund said.

“We bathe. Every single day. Sometimes more than once.”

“What ever for?”

“Again, germs.”

“But what if I don’t want these germs?” Edmund asked, clearly concerned. “What if I just want to be the way I am?”

“No, Edmund. You don’t get germs from bathing. You’ve got them already. Bathing every day keeps them down. And

germs give you diseases.”

“Ye mean like plague?” Edmund asked.

“Yes, exactly like plague,” I said.

“And ye’ve no plague here?”

“Nobody I ever knew or ever heard of has ever had the plague.”

Edmund shook his head. “Ye’ve conquered the plague,” he said. “O, brave new world that hath such people in it.”

“Mom says soap and water can solve half the problems in the world,” I said.

“Very well. I will bathe. Show me what I must do.”

“Wait a minute—I am not going to show you how I bathe,” I exclaimed.

“I never meant for ye to uncover yourself to me. Just show me the equipments.”

“Tub,” I said and pointed. “Taps. Hot water. Cold water. This little gizmo closes the tub. Soap. Shampoo for your hair. Washcloth. Towel for drying off after.”

Edmund was taking everything in like a dry sponge. He pointed over my head and asked, “What is yon?”

“That’s the shower. Some people like showers better than baths.”

“And what does it do? Does it bathe ye, too?”

“Yes. It’s sort of like standing in the rain, only you can make it the temperature you want.”

“I would try it at once,” Edmund said. And he twisted the faucets as far as they would go and plunged his hands under the water.

“Great idea,” I said. “Hand your clothes out through the door and I’ll wash them for you.”

“But they’re the only clothes I’ve got,” he said.

“I’ll find you some others,’ I said. “Trust me, Edmund. Nobody wears codpieces any more.”

“Very good,” he said. “I will fear no evil.”

“Just don’t be afraid of the soap, either.”

I was glad Edmund was being so good about the bath thing. Because he stank. He reeked. It was worse than be.ing with Dad on a three-day camping trip.

I put the smelly tights, shirt, and filthy unmentionables in the wash on gentle, which, since there were no labels with washing instructions, seemed like the safest bet. Then I went back to check on Edmund.

The shower was running full blast, and I could hear him splashing around.

“Everything okay in there?” I shouted.

“Okay, indeed!” he replied. “I’m never coming out.”

“I should tell you, the hot water runs out eventually.”

“Then I’ll come out when it does so,” he said. “This is the greatest work of man since the creation. If only Doctor Dee could know of it.”

I figured this was a good time to find something to cover him up when he was done. I left him splashing away, went into my mom’s bedroom and went through the closet and chest of drawers she’d shared with Dad.

There was quite a bit of his stuff left. He’d been traveling light when he went off to develop as an individual, and I could have dressed Edmund in anything from a three-piece suit (ten years old, but in great shape) to a Moroccan caftan with about a hundred buttons down the front. I decided to go for simple: tan pants, and a polo shirt. I found a belt and some white socks. Nothing would be an exact fit; Dad was taller than Edmund, and Edmund had broader shoulders, but I figured it would get him through till tomorrow. Then Mom and I could get him some stuff.

“Edmund, your clothes are outside the door,” I called as I set them down.

“Thank ye, Miranda,” he said.

A few minutes later, he came into the living room. He was a shade lighter, and his hair was damp. He’d managed the clothes. The shirt was on all right, and the pants were okay, except that the zipper was down.

“Edmund, that little metal thing down in the front? Pull it up.”

It took him three tries. Then he worked the zipper up and down another ten.

“Marvelous strange,” he said.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Not a whit. But I would like another cola.”

“Help yourself.”

On his way to the kitchen, he paused by our flat-screen TV.

“What device is this?” he asked.

“Television,” I said. “Get your cola and I’ll show you how it works.”

I wasn’t going to throw Edmund in at the deep end of TV. I had the perfect introduction to the whole concept ready to go. It was a DVD of Romeo and Juliet. I’d watched about six productions as part of my preparation for my audition, and this one was ideal for him. The whole thing was staged in Elizabethan costumes and was done on a copy of an Eliza.bethan stage. And Mr. Gillinger had told us that R&J was one of Shakespeare’s two most popular plays. Maybe it would turn out Edmund had seen it.

When he came back, I got all teachery. “Now. Edmund, this is television.” I turned on the screen. It flared up huge and blue.

Edmund pushed himself into the back of the sofa. His eyes got big.

“What are ye conjurin’?” he said. “Be this some hole like the one I just fell through? Are ye openin’ a portal to another world?”

“It’s okay. It’s just television, and it’s just turning on. There are a lot of different things you can do with TV. Right now, we’re going to show you a movie. It’s also called a DVD. See this little disk? The whole movie is on it. All we do is turn on the television with this thing called a remote, put the DVD in the player like so, turn on the player and then we get this screen that asks us what we want to do. Play movie, select scenes, special features, languages. Anybody can do this. You can do it, too. Ready?”

I put Romeo and Juliet into the player.

There were a couple of ads for British movies. They whipped by so fast that Edmund didn’t understand anything about them I’m sure. But that wasn’t what really confused him. It was the pictures themselves.

“Are these people or spirits?” he asked. “Why be they flat and small? Why do they jerk so, like mad poppets?”

“They’re just clips from movies,” I said. “To get you to want to watch the whole thing. Don’t worry. The thing we’re going to see will make sense to you. In fact, you may even have seen it in London.”

“I feel like me head’s being whirled about by a huracano,” he said. He grabbed one of the sofa cushions and held it across his chest. “I do not like this television.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I said. “Everyone does. Now watch.”

The screen changed and I hit the play movie button. There was a fanfare of old-fashioned music and the title came on the screen: Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare.

“Nay,” Edmund said. “’Tis never.” His jaw dropped; he held his breath.

“’Tis,” I said.

The movie started. An actor called Chorus was stand.ing in the middle of the set that was supposed to be a street in Verona. “Two households both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene—” he began.

“’Tis never,” Edmund repeated.

“From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean—”

Edmund made a sound between a scream and a shout. He turned to me, and his face, which had been almost relaxed when he came out of the shower, was full of horror.

“Witch, by what enchantment have ye conjured up me brother William’s play?”

Chapter Four

“William Shakespeare is your brother?”

“Aye, if my parents are my parents and the world is the world,” he said.